Handwritten
by L'Arc en Coeur
Summary: The Normandy Landings. Arthur, Alfred, and Matthew go fearlessly into the depths of hell to try and rescue Francis from the German Army. They send notes to each other and each hastily written letter is filled with sorrow. Hinted ArthurXFrancis.


_**Author's Note:** Yet again I find myself making such superbly historically inaccurate fanfiction. You history buffs out there don't judge--I know I suck~! Anyway, enjoy if you can bear to read through the terribly researched historical facts and such (wherever they may be). Just a drabble, nothing more cause I have AP Eng.3 test tomorrow morning (hmm...I see where my priorities are)._

_"Help. Stop. France has been occupied. Stop. German troops stationed in Paris. Stop. French soldiers routed and being detained. Stop. Requesting immediate allied assistance. Stop."_

That was the note that sat untouched on Arthur's desk. And untouched it remained even though the Englishman had read it several times. His eyes scanned the printed text, but his body could not move to deliver the note to anyone who could think coherently and act accordingly. The words, he spited them--such mechanical reproductions of a desperate man's plea; apathetically printed and sent to him as if it were no one's business.

They were _his_ words. Arthur knew that and the knowledge tore a gaping wound in his heart. It beat frantically and then suddenly ceased and sank into his stomach leaving a biting emptiness in is chest. And then he mustered enough courage to reach the note—his hands trembled violently.

"F-Francis…"

He knew…he knew. The Frenchman was at the hands of the Germans. How he prayed nothing would happen to him.

Arthur and Francis had always fought, but they had always been friends. Despite the public animosity, the friendship that blossomed behind the façade was strong. They had, in all honesty, done everything together. Ever since they were children, they were in each others' company. And now…now, by sheer fate, Francis had let himself fall into the hands of the Germans. Would they do to him the same things they did to his country? Arthur dared not think about the many morbid outcomes, but his heart ached because they _were _possibilities.

"Francis…"

- - -

They congregated in England. The Allies were to begin the liberation of France. But it was no easy task. The Russians and the Chinese were away fighting battles on their own fronts and so those that remained were to rescue their French allies. Churchill and Eisenhower planned and sent their strategical maneuvers onto Arthur and his American counterpart, Alfred F. Jones, for further review. There was another also joining, a quiet young man with downy, long hair. He too was blonde and had those icy blue eyes as deep and distant as that star ocean that encircled his motherland.

Matthew was to lead the Canadian advance in France. But for him, there was more at stake than just a military battle. Francis…

Those old memories raced through his mind and he was almost brought to tears, but he focused more of his energy keeping his voice straight than those overwhelming emotions. Dammit, that knot in his throat was yearning to be noticed—it ached beautifully and coaxed him—tempted him—to change his pitch. But he kept it down and adjusted his glasses hesitantly while sinking into his thick military coat—quite unnecessary for the weather which had been forgiving the last few days.

"How will we do this? We're attacking from such a small nation and we have the ocean to cross," the Canadian asked.

And his question was quite warranted, how _were_ they going to tackle such a feat?

Arthur replied the man's concerns, "S'alright. We all will attack at Normandy. From what I've managed to learn from those German spies, Hitler doesn't suspect that we'll attack from there. On top of that, Alfred's staged military regiment further north has them completely confused. They actually believe that Normandy's the ploy and that we _will_ be attacking further north. So, I'll have my Air Force attack up the coast of France to give some credence to the Germans' idea of an attack on the area. They'll probably rush a majority of their forces to the spot and then we'll be relatively clear to enter France. Of course, it won't be as easy as one, two, three, you know? There are plenty of things that can go wrong."

"And all we need now are the landing sites and it sounds like a plan!" the American interjected. "I'll be leading my troops onto the southern part of Normandy. We'll drop in two groups and make our way into the mainland. Arthur has his two regiments as well and in between his is yours, Matthew. We'll all have to 'regroup', I suppose, when we get further off the coast. Until then we'll have to take care of our own troops."

The Canadian pulled his coat above his lips trying to mask his apprehension.

"Okay," was all he replied.

- - -

The three continued to receive German intelligence for a while and with the miracle that was codenamed ULTRA, Alfred, Arthur, and Matthew gleaned even more from coded German messages. Within hours they would receive new tidbits of information, but with great feats came great devastations.

_"Air attack on Coventry to proceed without delay. Stop."_

That was all. Arthur was dumbstruck as Matthew read him the note in a tone that was seeped in empathy.

"Arthur," he appealed.

What _could_ the Englishman do?

"We evacuate!" he roared. "We have no other choice!"

It was only a day later when he received a handwritten note from Churchill.

_"We will not defend. If the Germans notice any defensive movement, they will know that we've been intercepting and decoding their messages. As Machiavelli once wrote, "the end justifies the means", and as wholly apathetic as it may sound, it is true. I'm sorry. Permission to mobilize troops denied._

_-Churchill"_

The hot, bitter, hateful tears reached his eyes, but Arthur wiped them away quickly. He could not show weakness or faltering judgment. Biting his lip, he did what he could and swallowed his apprehension. He stared at the letters a little longer after the fact. His eyes followed the lines and swirls as he began reading the emotions behind the text. Yes, it read cold, but behind the façade was something that was deeply apologetic. Arthur knew it was far more difficult for Churchill than it was for himself—more difficult than he could have possibly imagined and the words revealed it all.

- - -

Alfred moved across the English Channel in a carrier with thirty or so other men. He was squeezed in the middle though he was leading his battalion at the landing site he nostalgically named 'Omaha'.

"If you're not home, then make a home of where you are," he had always told himself.

_If one fights in a distant land, then know what one fights for…_

His other force was positioned further south at 'Utah' and Arthur and Matthew were to the north. Oh God, Matthew. That boy did not look in the least fit for war, but there was no turning back, it was do or die, fight to live. The boat slowed to an agonizing cruise. There was an awkward silence that was broken only by the pitter patter of something hailing against the carrier's metal frame.

Was it raining? Alfred could not tell. He had not seen the outside since he had left England. But then he realized.

The door to the carrier began creaking open and the pitter-patter became the violent droning of machine guns freeing their bullets onto the armored transport.

_Welcome to Hell…_

One shot ricocheted off the metal walls and struck down a soldier behind him. He felt the bullet whip past his face—the scalding heat burned his cheek and he cupped it protectively. And the doors were open and the bullets flew in as easily as rain falls from the anxious grey sky. And anxious it was; the morbid grey eclipsed the heavens and watched as they marched onward to their deaths. But he could not die…

And the doors hit the bank and those that were not already shot down descended hurriedly with their already loaded guns. They trampled the beaches and began firing, but it was life for a life and for every kill one was killed. His allies, riddled with bullets, stumbled lifelessly at his sides. Some had not even made three steps out of the carrier by the time they were mowed down by the barrage of unforgiving lead. But he had to continue…

The mortars and mines exploded at his sides and the noises—oh, the ringing noises—they echoed through his ears and violently shook his consciousness with the reality that he was at war and that his life was in danger. He was scared, but none of the German troops would have known it. His face held solid with that sliver of hope that he could make it to see Arthur's request through—save Francis.

Debris was hurled into the air and came raining down in torrents. It pelted Alfred—the constant tap, tap, tap, at his helmet would have driven him insane—but he pushed through the obstructions and continued rattling rounds from his machine gun, ducking behind whatever overturned vehicle there was for protection.

It was war—they were at war. He looked up at the vast expanse of nothingness that lay before him—that strange grey nothingness that seemed to merge with the dejected sky and trail off unto infinity. There was nothing that waited for them at the end, nothing but death. But he had to go on and he did; his boot trampled heavy into the dried sand and pushed forward despite the adversity. He had to go on.

- - -

There was this note. It was a hastily scribbled one with terrible handwriting to be certain. Ludwig eyed it without much emotion and laid it to the side apathetically.

"Who from?" was the only two words that came from is mouth.

"A British soldier, Sir, trying to sneak his way into the high security prison."

"Anything else?"

"We think he is a spy because he was trying to deliver the note to a French soldier being held in solitary. We've detained both and they will be severely questioned."

"Fine, be sure to milk the English one for all the information he is worth, but be a bit kinder to our French guest. After all, his country is being such a nice host that we want to return the favor," there was something strangely sadistic in his low, rumbling voice. "You are dismissed."

The subordinate that had stood by while Ludwig read the note left and he was shortly followed by the German leader himself.

The note lay crumpled on the table like an over-read book…

_"No matter what happens to me…no matter what happens to you, never give up and never let them have the satisfaction of your defeat. We're coming for you…_

_I'm coming for you…_

_Don't die…_

_-Arthur Kirkland"_

Because _he_ felt that handwriting was the only way in which one could express his feelings aptly.


End file.
